


The Final Case

by Black_Rose_117



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:45:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Rose_117/pseuds/Black_Rose_117
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is being his usual self; stubborn, arrogant, and simply clueless to all things "normal." John, on the other hand, is trying to make Sherlock see something that the arrogant bastard doesn't seem to want to see, or simply can't. As John tries to get through to his flatmate, his flatmate holds secrets back; secrets that may just change John's mind of moving out of 221B for good....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Only the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This little chapter story is for the wonder hushedjournal6, who won my "100 watchers" contest on Deviantart.
> 
> Want more Johnlock stories? My Deviantart if full of them. User is the same "Black-Rose-117" hope to see you on there ;)

_He’s a genius. A bloody brilliant man and easily the smartest in London – Hell, maybe even the world… yet he can’t even see the most obvious thing in the world even if I shove it in his face and scream it at him…_ John thought sadly as he watched the amazing arrogant bastard as he lay on the couch, his hands pressed together and rested against his lips. His eyes scanned the ceiling lazily as he thought, his body so relaxed and his mind so sharp. He turned back to the pile of dishes that sat in front of him, picking up the rage next to the sink and drying the plate in his hand, running slow, small circles on the glassware. _Will he ever see..?_

“John,” Sherlock’s sharp voice cut into his thoughts, making John jump slightly and snap his attention to the detective at once. “Stop thinking, will you?”

“Wha’?” John asked, his face turning the lightest shade of pink.

“Stop thinking, it’s too loud and annoying. I’m trying to figure something out which I can’t do when you’re thinking such loud thoughts.”

“Right, of course,” John replied slowly, turning back to the dish in his hand and reaching up, placing it in the cabinet with a sigh. “Can’t have that.”

“Glad you see it the way I do, John,” Sherlock sneered, falling quiet again.

The flat was silent except for the clinking of dishes as John worked. He got halfway through before Sherlock sighed heavily, stood – his bathrobe falling around his figure, lazily tied around his waist – and walked over the coffee table. John watched him with quizzical eyes as Sherlock reached for the fridge, opened the door and started searching through the bottom shelves. 

“What are you lo-?” John started before Sherlock sighed and snapped the door closed, some of the contents in the fridge shifting and some obviously falling to the bottom of the unit. 

“I’m going to the store,” Sherlock grunted, heading up to his room. John heard the snap of the door closing and raised an eyebrow up the stairs in that direction. 

_What is he doing?_ John mused, turning back to the dishes. _Maybe he’ll finally do the shopping…_ He couldn’t stop the small laugh at that that bubbled up through his throat. Sherlock? Shopping? Yeah, like that would ever happen.

Footsteps on the stairs made John turn to see Sherlock trotting down them, messing with the collar of his tight light green shirt. He pulled his coat on over the ensemble before coming back into the kitchen. “Am I correct in thinking you want me to pick up milk and bread while I’m there?” Sherlock asked, checking the fridge once again, John’s mouth falling open at the question. Sherlock turned his gaze to John, still doubled over in the fridge. “John?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, if you can?” John said, closing his mouth. “T-that would be great, thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grunted, closed the door of the fridge and went to the door. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder before the door shut closed behind him. 

John sighed heavily into the empty flat, drying his hands and abandoning the remaining pile of dishes. Throwing the rage towards the edge of the sink, he moved into the sitting room and sat in his armchair, picking up the paper. A picture of Sherlock ducking away from the camera painted the third page in black and white, and John couldn’t help but smile. The grimace on his face, the way his arm was around John’s shoulder and pulling his quickly through the crowd, his other hand half way shoved into the camera lens in an attempt to block out the shot; John though it was the cutest thing in the world. He smiled as he stared at the picture of his best friend, unable to turn the page. He almost didn’t hear the baritone voice that sounded from the doorway. 

“Is there a reason you’re staring and smiling at that picture of me, John?” Sherlock asked as the door opened slightly, him reaching in to grab his wallet that he left on the coffee table. 

“What? N-no! I was reading the article! That’s all,” John muttered, the excuse rolling past his lips quickly. 

“And you’re smiling because-?” Sherlock prompted. 

“W-well, I mean… look at your face! It’s… it’s funny,” John stammered, waving his hand over the picture. “I mean… you look like you just ate a tart lemon or something.” He let a dry chuckle pass his lips, no heat really behind it. 

“Yes, yes, I know, but it’s the best picture they’re going to get of me,” Sherlock waved off. He nodded at John before he let the door shut behind him. 

John sighed in relief as he heard the door shut, shutting the paper. _That was close_ , he thought, shaking his head. Why couldn’t he just tell Sherlock that he liked him? He hinted plenty of times, so why couldn’t the arrogant bastard figure it out? It would just be so much easier if he knew.


	2. "Shopping"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Sherlock really does when he goes for the "shopping"

Sherlock let the door snap shut behind him as he jogged down the stairs and out into the wind that nipped playfully at his skin and coat. Jerking his coat up to block the wind a little bit more, he started swiftly down the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction of the store. He would worry about the shopping he promised John later, for right now, he was only interested in walking and, possibly, a drink at the corner bar. 

His mind was racing as he pieced together the puzzle John seemed to be subconsciously leaving for him. It was difficult, to give the doctor props, and very well thought out. He kept leaving small hints here and there, slipping them into everyday conversations and actions. He knew John thought he wasn’t picking them up, but of course, he was. Problem was, he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to come up with an answer. He didn’t know what he was supposed to figure out; cases were easy, he knew the basic outcome. There was always the victim, and there was always the culprit, all he had to do was figure out who was who and who did what. With John, he didn’t even know where to start, let alone end.

He pushed the heavy door to the corner bar open and stepped inside, his body immediately relaxing as he felt the wind be blocked out by the closing door, his body warming quickly. He lowered the coat collar and headed up to sit at the bar. He nodded at the bar tender, who started to make his usual drink quickly. Sherlock was a usual costumer here, normally only having one or two drinks to give his mind a break but not enough that he couldn’t think on a moment’s notice - or enough that John would catch on. The drink was placed in front of him and Sherlock sipped at it almost at once. The bitter taste of his pousse-café coating his tongue quickly, the lime juice, ameretto, peppermint schnapps, and tequila burning his throat in a sweat pain as he swallowed. 

He downed his first three glasses and ordered another, his mind so focused on working John’s puzzle out that he didn’t pay attention to how much he actually was drinking. When he finally got up to leave, figuring he’d better go do the shopping and get back to John to see if he would drop any more clues, he staggered and felt a firm hand on his shoulder pull him back into his seat. 

“Sorry, Sherlock,” the bar tender, Steven, shook his head, holding Sherlock in his seat. “I can’t let you go. You drank too much; it’s too dangerous for you to leave.”

“Oh pleash,” Sherlock slurred, shocked at the difficulty to talk. “How mush did I drin’?”

“About fifteen glasses. I’m sorry, but can you call someone to pick you up?” Steven asked, pulling his hand back from Sherlock’s shoulder and picking up the dishes he’d been cleaning. 

“I-I can call meh flatmath,” Sherlock muttered, fingering his phone out of his pocket with more difficulty than normal. He dialed John’s number and raised his phone to his ear. 

“Hello? Sherlock?” John’s voice came over the line, his voice confused. “Where are you? Has there been a case?”

“Naaah,” Sherlock shook his head, even though his hazy mind knew John couldn’t see him. “Drank too much. Can’t leave. T’ey won’t let me.”

“What? Sherlock, where are you?” 

“Corner bar.”

“My guess is that you didn’t do the shopping?”

“Noth yet,” Sherlock said, shaking his head again.

There was an auditable sigh over the line before John muttered, “I’ll be right there. _Don’t go anywhere_ , Sherlock.”

“Won’t leth me.”

The line went dead and Sherlock re-pocketed the phone, turning back to the bar tender. “Steven? Can I hath anot’er drink, pleash?”


	3. Maybe he'd never know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More drunk Sherlock. Sorry for any trouble you have understanding what he is trying to say X) Good luck :3

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed as he approached his friend, who was downing another drink while giggling at the bar tender, who was smirking slightly and leaning on the counter. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and caught his attention. “You okay?” 

“Fine, Jothn,” Sherlock slurred, smiling up at his friend and turning completely in his seat to face him. “Neva’ felt betta.”

John sighed heavily but couldn’t help but smile down at his beaming friend. “How much did you drink?” John asked, chuckling and brushing a strand of hair out of Sherlock’s eyes as he attempted to blow it from his forehead. 

“He only had about twenty glass,” Steven sighed. “I’m sorry, I was going to stop him, but he did that… that mind trick shit on me and… well, I suspect you know how that goes, being his partner and all.”

“Oh, no, no, no, I’m not- I mean, I just his friend,” John corrected, waving his hands and laughing nervously. “He’s not my partner.”

“Oh, my apologizes. I’ve just heard so much about you that I just thought…” Steven trailed off and nervously chuckled with John. “John Watson, correct? Name’s Steven; Sherlock’s been coming here for a few years, so naturally-“

“I wanth to go ho’e!” Sherlock declared, standing and taking John’s hand in his, pulling him towards the door. “Bye, Stheven!”

“Bye, Sherlock. Be careful, don’t be too much of a handful,” Steven laughed back before the door shut behind the pair and John was half dragged down the sidewalk. It took him a few minutes before he realized he was being dragged _away_ from the direction of the flat. 

“Where are we going, Sherlock?” John asked slowly, looking around as his hand was gripped harder and Sherlock picked up the pace, surprisingly sturdy for someone who just had twenty glasses of alcohol. How was this man even alive right now? 

“Ith’s a spurprise, John!” Sherlock beamed, pulling the doctor into the park and starting down the path. 

John laughed lightly and let himself be pulled by the detective, his mind still trying to wrap around the fact that Sherlock wasn’t falling over himself. He followed until they reached the bottom of a hill, a path that wrapped around the bank of the lake stretched out ahead of them. Sherlock pulled John a ways along the path to a bench that was secluded from most of the activity in that park. It was a dip in the path, bent a bit away from the water and hidden by a tall brick wall, built to keep the sand above from slipping down and into the lake. He was pushed onto the bench before Sherlock flopped down next to him, throwing his arms along the back of the bench – one going behind John’s head – and stretching out his body, his long legs extended drastically out towards the sun. His head fell back as his eyes closed and he chuckled lightly.

“You a sthmart one, John. Vury sthmart,” Sherlock chuckled, his slurring making it hard for John to understand him. “Tis little puzzle yoo’ve set up thor me, vury sthmart indeed.”

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” John asked, turning towards Sherlock on the bend and watching his friend, the chuckles unable to be held back. “What puzzle?”

“Oh pleash,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, the smile barely faltering. “Yoo know w’ich puzzle.” His head fell to the side, falling onto John’s shoulder and nuzzling his neck, John taking a sharp intake of breath at the feeling of Sherlock’s nose and lips rubbing his neck. “T’e puzzle wher’ yoo keep droppin’ hints righ’ in meh facth. Yoo’ve been waithing for meh to fighure it out.”

John’s face heated when he realized what this brilliant – and drunk – man may be on about. Was he talking about all those times he tried to hint at the fact that he had feelings for him? Was he really going to confront this while drunk? “Oh?”

“Yeah, and meh thinths meh goth the anther,” Sherlock beamed into John’s neck, his excitement radiating off his lips and sending chills down John’s spine. 

“O-oh?” 

“Yeah. Your upshet,” Sherlock said slowly, sitting back and looking John in the eyes. “You thel I don’t appreciath you enough.” John’s heart stopped pounding painfully against his ribs and stopped for a moment before dropping into his stomach. “I appreciath you, John! Yoo know thath.”

John looked at his best friend’s drunken grin, fighting to keep the hurt from his eyes. Sherlock didn’t know. Maybe he never would. He forced a smile onto his face and slowly said, “I know, Sherlock. I know you do. I’m sorry for thinking otherwise. Now, let’s go home and get you in bed, you’re going to have a brutal hang over in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded, his smile not leaving his face as he let John pull him to his feet. They made their way back to the main road and John hailed a cab. 

Maybe Sherlock would never know.


	4. Shitfaced

“ _John_!” 

The doctor flinched as he heard the moan from upstairs, the coffee cup clutched in his hand getting squeezed tighter. He sighed heavily before he poured a second cup of the still-hot-coffee, added the proper amount of sugar, and headed upstairs, grabbing a pill bottle of advil on his way past the cupboard. He pushed the door open gently with his foot and a groan met him, the light falling into the room. 

“Sit up, Sherlock,” John instructed, shutting the door slightly as to not abuse the detective too much. Sherlock pulled back the covers carefully, taking a look around the room before sitting up and moaning, leaning back against the headboard. He took the mug that John held out to him and took a small sip, John watching him carefully. 

“I feel like I’m dying, John,” Sherlock muttered into the coffee, his eyes shut as he let the steam roll over his face and sooth the pounding in his head. “That’s a lie. Death is less painful than this.”

“Why did you let yourself get so drunk than?” John asked, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of Sherlock’s eyes. Even totally shitfaced, John thought Sherlock was a beautifully wonderful creature; the way his eyes darted around behind the lid, the way his lips parted slightly to cradle the mug between them and sip the warm liquid, the way his fingers held the cup like it was holding liquid life. Everything about Sherlock was just too wonderful and at peace, no matter how much pain Sherlock was in. “You’re normally so good at controlling yourself.”

“I was trying to figure out your puzzle, John,” he muttered. He took the pills John held out to him just then and took a moment to swallow them, John watching his lips as he pushed one pill between his lips with three fingers. “Can you tell me the answer, please?”

“To what puzz-“ then it hit him and his heart fell into his stomach. Sherlock was talking about the hints John had been dropping… about his feelings for the detective. He couldn’t tell him, he just couldn’t. And he didn’t like it that Sherlock just thought it another puzzle. Was he really that clueless?

“ _Your_ puzzle, John,” Sherlock said slowly, opening his eyes to look at the doctor. “Please, I’ve wasted enough sleep over this.”

“I-I can’t…” John muttered, tucking another strand of hair behind Sherlock’s ear and standing. He knew the motioning was a little bit more than their usual friendly flatmate act, but John just needed the contact than. Besides, it could easily be taken as just a kind gesture towards a friend who feels like his brain is clawing at the inside of his skull with a knife. “At least, not yet. Sleep now, and maybe when your head isn’t killing you we’ll talk. Night.”

Without turning back to Sherlock’s pleas, John exited the room and closed the door behind him. He sighed, pausing outside the door, before shaking his head and heading back to the kitchen and his coffee.


	5. Nothing

The next morning, Sherlock appeared in the kitchen, approaching John, who was reading the morning paper, and sitting down across from him. John lowered the paper and looked at his friend, who was staring at him.

“Yes?” John asked, folding the paper up slowly and giving Sherlock an unsure glare. “Can I help you?”

“You told me when my head isn’t killing me you would tell me,” Sherlock stated. He made a “come on then” motion with his hand and waited for John to tell him.

“I said maybe, Sherlock,” John huffed. He was really getting tired of all this. He was supposed the most brilliant man in all of London, yet he can’t take a few simple hints and put it all together. It’s not as though John is making it hard on him.

“John, stop being so boring! Just tell me what it all bloody means!” Sherlock snapped, rolling his eyes. 

That was it. John stood angrily, glaring down at his flatmate. “Maybe you’re just too bloody _stupid_ to see it, Sherlock,” John growled, jabbing his finger at the detective. “And I’m not going to tell you. I’ve made it painfully obvious as it is, and if you’re too blind to see it-“ He cut off, his eyes threatening to start to water. “Excuse me.” He growled, turning smartly on his heels and storming to his room. He wasn’t dealing with Sherlock’s bullshit anymore. If he couldn’t see that John was madly in love with him, then it didn’t matter.

It was obvious he didn’t feel the same.


	6. The Last Goodbye

He snapped the door shut behind him and leaned against it heavily; his room abnormally smaller then it usually seemed to be. The walls were closing in on him and all he could think of was what was outside his door. His heart was racing and his eyes were itching with tears he refused to let fall. That would only be a sign of weakness, and John wouldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t allow himself to be seen in that light. 

He pushed off the door and paced to his beg, pulling the duffle bag out from underneath where he had always hidden it. He had to get away from that Consulting _Prick_ , if not for his own sanity. So, with his eyes itching and his vision blurred with furry and the smallest threatened tears, he shoved clothes into the bag, not bothering with any sort of pictures that lines the shelves. Why would he need memories of this place? 

Once finished, he shrugged the bag onto his shoulder, turning on his heels to start towards the door; but something stopped him.

It was a picture, one that Greg had given him after a case. He was sure Sherlock didn’t know this photo existed, let alone that John had it, neither really ventured into one another’s rooms. The picture was semi-dark, seeing it was taken in a darkened alleyway. Sherlock was knelling next to a body at a crime scene, the tape behind them shining brilliantly in the background. John was standing over him, the two of them chuckling and Sherlock looking up at him. It was the only picture of Sherlock actually giving a real smile that John had ever seen. Lestrade had snapped it with the crime scene camera and John, honestly, loved him for it. It was so them, just summing up their lives together perfectly. 

After an internal debate, he picked up the picture and the frame and pushed it gently into his bag, making sure the glass wouldn’t break. With that, he turned the handle on his door and let the heavy wood snap shut behind him. He passed quickly through the living room, making a point not to look at Sherlock.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, almost fearful, as John reached the front door to the flat. He opened it, pretending not to have heard Sherlock at all, and stepped over the thresh hold. “John? Wha- where are you going? Wait…”

But John shut the door behind him, rushing out the front door and out into the chilled air. He flagged down a taxi and watched it come to a stop in front of him when he heard the front door open behind him. He, stupidly, looked over his shoulder at the detective as he climbed into the back seat.

“John… where-?”

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” John muttered, allowing himself one last look into the detective’s eyes before he closed the door and let the taxi roll away from the curb, leaving Sherlock standing on the top step, watching as the taxi rolled around the corner and out of view…

…Taking John with it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when the glass is broken...

John threw his bag onto the old hotel room bed. He didn’t know how long he was going to live in hotels, but after a week, he started going to… cheaper ones. Ones that wouldn’t run such a bill. 

Sure, he stayed in London, why, he didn’t know. Part of him told him that London was just his home, and he couldn’t leave home…

…The other part was telling him he was sort of hoping for Sherlock to come after him. It was stupid, yes; a week later and still hoping, but John couldn’t help it. No matter how much he hated it, he was madly in love with the famous Sherlock Holmes; but after the past week, he was starting to wonder if the detective ever needed him in the first place. It wasn’t like he did much… But… he wouldn’t simply let him leave, would he? He sounded pretty upset when the doctor had left…

John sighed and slumped onto the bed. His bag slipped off and landed zipper down on the floor. It wouldn’t have bothered John all that much if he hadn’t heard the sickening crunch of glass as the bag hit.

“No…” he muttered, falling to his knees and turning the bag over carefully. “No no no no no.” He unzipped the bag and reached in, carefully pulling out the now broken picture frame. The glass was cracked horribly in the right hand upper corner before running down the picture… right between Sherlock and himself.

John cursed loudly because he knew it was right. Just like in the picture, they were divided now; no longer whole. It was painful to accept, but he knew, now, that Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him. Maybe it was time to get out of London…


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter where Sherlock thinks over John

Sherlock lay spiraled out on the couch, his hands stapled together and pressed lightly to his lips. He had been like that for the past four days. The three days before that, he spent pacing the flat, walking laps from the living room, to his room, than up to John’s room – well, old room, anyway. Something told Sherlock that John wouldn’t be coming back. 

After the first two days, he had walked into John’s room and looked around – he was hoping for some sort of hint, something that would tell Sherlock what John was playing at before he left. Had he written it down? Did he have a diary or a notebook, some ex-army soldiers had those, right? 

He had torn the room apart, searching for anything, but, of course, finding nothing. All he found were picture of the doctor, most of them while he was in his uniform. Sherlock had picked one up and looked it over, his eyes taking in every curve of the doctor’s body - the way his uniform had hugged his fit, tones stomach, the curve of his shoulders, the way his pants were just baggy enough that they didn’t hug the muscles. Sherlock had to admit, John actually looked pretty… attractive. 

He had taken the picture and it now sat next to the couch on the table where he could easily see it while he lay there. It didn’t fill the emptiness of the flat, but it gave him some reminder on what he was missing. 

It gave him the motive he needed to get his doctor back.


	9. Chapter 9

John finished packing his bag – not that there was much to pack – and shouldered its strap. He took the room key from next to the bed and shoved it in his pocket. It was going to be his last day in London. He just couldn’t stay here anymore, not with all the memories it held and the fact that Sherlock was here. His picture breaking like it had had decided it. Sherlock didn’t want him; he didn’t feel anything like John did so why should John keep waiting? He didn’t even care that he had left. Never came after him. There was no argument to try to get John to stay, no attempts to find him. Hell, Sherlock hadn’t even called him. 

With that painful thought in his head, John pulled the hotel door open and let it snap shut behind him. He went down to the lobby and handed in his key, paying what he needed to and pulling his thin jacket closer around his shoulders. He started down the sidewalk through the chilled morning air, but the wind didn’t bother him. He welcomed the numb feeling as he walked, knowing he was going farther away from someone who could possibly be the love of his life. He wanted the numbness to take the pain away. 

He was almost to the airport, his body protesting moving anymore from just how cold it was, when he felt a dull pain at the back of his skull. He felt another pain a little higher up and turned to see what was hitting him. He was punched hard in the nose and fell to the ground, his tailbone aching from the collision to the frozen cement. He looked up at his attacker but didn’t have much time to see him before another fist collided with his jaw and he fell back, unconscious.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock paced the flat as he tried to piece together some solution to this problem. He had to get his doctor back. The flat was too empty without him, too quiet. Normally, Sherlock would have liked the silence, but this was a different silence. This was a lonely silence. An empty silence. With John, the silence was one of companionship. Of comfort. 

With John, everything was just easier. 

So how do you get a pissed off, strong headed ex-soldier to come back? Would he answer a phone call if Sherlock rang? Would he have to hunt him down? Was he even still in London?

Unsure of what else to turn to, he pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialed Mycroft's number. At least he could help track John down. 

"Mycroft speaking," came the Holmes elder's voice.

"Mycroft."

"Ah, little brother. What pleasure do I have to receive a call from you at this time?" Mycroft asked, the pleasure tone making Sherlock sneer into the phone. 

"John left," Sherlock said trying as hard as he could to keep the growl from his voice. "I was hoping to use your CCTV cameras to track him down."

"Your little doctor ran away?" Mycroft taunted. "Oh, too bad. You really had it good with him too, little brother. May I ask what you did this time?"

"I did nothing," Sherlock said, the anger unable to be hidden. "I don't know why he left. I need to find him and get him to explain what game he was playing at."

"Game, brother dear? What game?"

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. It wasn't worth losing his temper over his brother's stupidity. "Can I use your cameras than?"

"Come on over, brother dear. But you're going to tell me about that game."

Sherlock huffed and hung up the phone, stuffing it deep into his pocket and going to shrug on his coat. Mycroft just had to be that pain in the ass that Sherlock knew he was going to be. But at least he could now try to track down his doctor.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock made his way quickly up to Mycroft's office, not even bothering to knock before pushing the door open. He shut it behind him and turned to see his brother staring at him from across his oak wood desk.

"Brother," Mycroft greeted, waving to a chair across from him. Sherlock took it regretfully and watched his brother carefully.

"The cameras, if you would?" Sherlock said, just wanting to get out of there. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with his older brother at all. He just wanted to find John and get him back to 221B before he left for good.

"Na-uh. That game, first," Mycroft ticked, folding his hands on his desk and leaning back slightly.

"How's that diet coming, brother dear?" Sherlock snickered, hoping to get Mycroft ticked off just enough that he'll want him out of there faster and would just show him the damn cameras.

Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "The game, Sherlock," he growled, sucking his stomach in a bit so it wasn't hanging out so much.

Sherlock just smirked and brushed a dark curl from his eye. "He's leaving this... this puzzle for me," Sherlock said, figuring he might as well tell Mycroft. It wouldn't hurt and the chance to use the CCTV cameras and get out was too great. "He keeps dropping all these small hints like smiling at pictures of me or even just the smallest of things like trying to get me to eat. He cares for me no matter what I've done to myself and just- I don't know what he's trying to say with everything he's done. He got upset with me and left because I couldn't figure out the answer, so it must be important. But I can't piece it together..."

"Oh brother," Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head. "Brother, brother, brother. For the most brilliant man in London, you sure can be an idiot."

"What do you mean by that?!"

"Can't you see it, brother dear?" Mycroft laughed. "The good doctor is trying to tell you that he loves you. Even I could figure that out!"

"L-loves me... like-"

"Yes, like that, Sherlock. How could you not see it?"

"I-I mean... Why would he leave over that? So what if I couldn't figure that out. He knows I'm not good with emotions and _feelings_. That can't be right!"

Mycroft just sighed and shook his head, standing and motioning to his computer. "Go ahead and find him than, brother dear. You'll see soon enough that I'm right, as always."

Sherlock scowled at his brother as he stood and went around to sit behind the desk top. _He can't be right,_ he thought, pulling up the cameras. _He just can't be. John can't love me. He would have told me._

He started to scan the area, switching from camera to camera and spending the extra time to scan each face. He spent a few hours there, Mycroft having to go to a business meeting and leaving him with the promise not to touch anything else. It was infuriating to search each face, none of the pictures containing John. Where could he possibly have gone?

As he started into his sixth hour of searching, his phone went off in his pocket and his mindlessly pulled it out, grunting into it.

"Sherlock? It's Lestrade. We need you down at The Yard right away," Lestrade said, Sherlock pressing a button on the computer to go to the next camera. 

"Can't, busy," Sherlock muttered, making to hang up before Lestrade had a chance to speak again.

"Do you know where John is?"


End file.
